


Your Brother's Wife

by copper_marigolds



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Brother/Brother Incest, Cheating, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Like Don't Read, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Underage, Incest, M/M, Multi, Other, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21847714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copper_marigolds/pseuds/copper_marigolds
Summary: Your brother's wife is a beautiful woman. Well-mannered and refined, she wears silk dresses that show off her alabaster shoulders and heaving bosoms. She speaks in a high-pitched voice with a funny accent, but she's genuine and honest with her emotions. She looks at you often. You look away.
Relationships: Eamon Guerrin/Teagan Guerrin
Kudos: 4





	Your Brother's Wife

Your brother's wife is a beautiful woman. Well-mannered and refined, she wears silk dresses that show off her alabaster shoulders and heaving bosoms. She speaks in a high-pitched voice with a funny accent, but she's genuine and honest with her emotions.

She looks at you often. You look away.

Your brother is older than you. He's a cunning man, as charming and ruthless as a man of his station must be. An Arl, loyal to the crown. Plotting, sweet-talking, playing his own version of the Orlesian Game - for all the Fereldan disdain for Orlais and its games, there is no escape from politics when you're born into it and your very survival depends on being savvy.

You're not a good politician; you lose your temper much too quickly, refusing to compromise. Your brother, on the other hand, is.

Ten years ago he married the foreign beauty he had been ordered to marry; they produced an offspring. A son. An heir.

Ten years of marriage. One child.

Your brother doesn't look at his beautiful wife nearly as often as you do.

Your brother's wife is young, still young. Younger than him. Your age. In the beginning, she used to smile at him often, you think, but it was a long time ago. Your brother hardly pays her any mind, and she seems to have given up.

She has her own separate bedroom these days. She never invites him, and he never visits her.

She must be lonely up there, all alone by herself...

You know the reason all too well.

You're all too aware of the way his eyes linger on you. Your brother looks at you with that unreadable expression, and you remember the old days. When the two of you were little boys, hopeless refugees on the run from the Orlesian occupation forces, out in the open, in the middle of nowhere, sharing the same worn-out bed roll. You and your brother used to cuddle for warmth. He used to hug you from behind.

You remember the first time he snuck his hand in your trousers. You pretended to be asleep, and he withdrew soon enough.

You never spoke of that incident. You would have thought it was an accident, a bad dream...

Then it happened again.

You remember the first time your body responded to his touch. An aching sort of need, stiff and terrifying. His short urgent intakes of breath, hot air on the back of your neck that made your skin crawl; wet with want, nervous, agitated, relentless panting.

You remember the first time you liked it. It was terrible and shameful, but it felt good to be held, to be wanted. His breath in your ear. His sticky fingers touching, probing. Beads of sweat on your skin like slimy, watery slugs. The firestorm in your lower abdomen, twisting like a serpent trapped inside, begging for release.

The cocoon of your stuffy old bedroll held the promise of safety from the outside world. You wouldn't be found, you wouldn't be hurt. Your brother was there. You were safe.

You wanted more.

You remember the first time you faced your brother to spread your legs.

You remember the first time he kissed you - mouth, neck, stomach, lower. Everywhere. His face was fluffy with budding stubble, and you thought it would tickle. It didn't. It scratched your tender skin with a thousand of prickly needles, sharp, unpleasant. You let your brother keep going anyway.

You remember the first time you kissed him back.

Those silly games stopped when the war - the Orlesian occupation - ended. Prince Marric was crowned King, Ferelden was a free country once again, and your family moved back into the Redcliffe castle. You were home, and your brother was the heir to the title of Arl. The two of you had your own separate bedrooms - of course - and your brother had a beautiful bride, soon to be wed, to kiss and hold her from that point on.

You had no one. You never did.

And now you are in the dining room: your brother, his wife and son, and you.

The child is the first to leave the table, summoned by his tutor for evening practice. He's a timid little lad, but he smiles brightly at his parents, giving each of them a kiss on the cheek before he leaves. Your brother is kind to his heir, and the boy adores him. Of course he does.

Servants bring the wine.

Your brother's wife sits across the table from you. She's wearing a warm-colored dress, cherry red and creamy pastel rose. Such a beautiful woman, really, she's gentle but insistent, impossible not to notice. Her hair is golden brown like bittersweet buckwheat honey, and silky smooth; her eyes are bright and deep, her skin barely marred by age; her form is enthralling, and her skirt shows off her slender ankles. Yes, she's beautiful, and her cleavage is distracting even as you manage to ignore it.

Your brother's wife smiles at you. She asks you about the library, the knights, the weather, anything and everything in the world.

She's friendly. She's charming. She's a good woman.

Your brother watches you talk to his wife and says nothing.

"More wine?" your brother's wife asks as she waves for a servant to refill her cup. Her ankle brushes against yours under the table - accidentally, of course. She's faithful. She would never hurt her husband. She's beautiful and proper, everything a man should want.

You nod.

The wine tastes sour. You drink the full cup in one go, then ask for a refill.

"Allow me," your brother says. The corner of his mouth is curled into a smirk as he takes the bottle from the servant, and his eyes are fixed on you. "Remember when we had to do everything with our own hands, Teagan?"

You remember.

Your brother fills your cup. The wine is red, dark, intoxicating.

You bring the cup to your lips with the intent to drink it in full, but, as soon as you take the first sip, you spit it out.

There is a hand on your thigh.

Your brother's wife is holding her wine cup with both hands, twirling it to watch the liquid slosh inside. She gasps in surprise when you (almost) jerk up from the table.

"Teagan!" she frowns, genuine concern written all over her beautiful sorrowful face. "What is it? Are you ill?"

"A little... dizzy, perhaps," you breathe out as you straighten up. The hand on your thigh inches up, creeping inevitably closer to your crotch. You know all too well what it means. "I think I'll turn in early. Please, excuse me."

You get up before you're caught. You try to hide your growing source of discomfort under the folds of your clothes; it's no use. So you knock over your all-but-full wine cup to draw your brother's wife's attention to the spilled liquid - she laments your clumsiness with a loud sigh and calls for the servants, and they're too busy trying to rescue her silk dress to notice the state of your ruffled trousers and the hunger in your brother's eyes.

Your brother laughs gregariously.

"Teagan, you lightweight! Looks like one drink is still one too many for you," he says. Then he stands up and offers his hand to you. The very hand that brushed against your inner thigh only a moment ago, the initiator of this catastrophe. "I'll take you to your chambers to make sure you don't trip over your own feet."

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice his wife's neck and back stiffen, her knuckles white as she clutches the seeping red fabric of her dress. Yet she says nothing.

You look in your brother's eyes. They're ice-cold grey, just like yours; not a hint of his wife's amber warmth in him.

You wish you could say no.

"Please do," you whisper to your brother instead.

When you leave, your brother's wife lets go of the dress and screeches at the servants over the ruined tablecloth.


End file.
